Perhaps it's because the longer I live the more I see broken men and boys who have been cheated of their manhood by the fairer gender in the name of femininity (a gross misconception of a beautiful mandate). Rarely do I point people to other people's weblogs, I'm far too selfish for such pious pleasantries, but this entry is far too valuable to not point people to. I've read and reread it several times since he posted it and think everyone, brothers and sisters, can benefit from it.

I thought the unsettled feeling was due to leftovers still in my stomach from Nepal. I thought that maybe the vague feeling of aloneness was from being so far from home. I thought perhaps all the turmoil in my being was because there had been no real goodbye, no real transition; I went from a best friend's wedding to a wilderness camp to Nepal to here and now I just go to classes. An emotional let down, perhaps? I had convinced myself the other day that as soon as I made real friends this feeling of isolation would flee and I would be my typical self, or, hopefully, better than my typical self.

But yesterday, as I walked through a set of double doors, I discovered that all those deceptive crevices in my life these past two weeks were instantly filled. I'm home.

It's called The Father's House. It's a quarter of a mile from school; I can walk. The pastor spoke about Kingdom living and five-fold ministry and evangelism and discipleship and, most of all, loving the Lord. The worship leader sung loudly and boldly and completely. The people around me clamored for my name, my hometown, my church background.

A good friend of mine told me several months ago, while I was fretting about finding a church here, that I could not hold our own church as the standard because I would never find anything that I was completely happy with in that case. I believed him, I still do. Nothing can replace my home church, if only because it's where I've seen the most significant growth in my spiritual life. Nothing can replace my pastor and his family. Nothing can replace the joy I have when thinking about my upcoming visit home, when I'll be able to go to my home church.

But yesterday, as I walked back to my dorm, a smile infected itself on my heart and I'm sure on my face. And all those crevices? Gone.

boys

Missing.

Have you ever taken a sip of someone's drink, thinking it was iced tea, and choking on it when you realized it was apple juice? This school experience is a little like choking on someone else's apple juice. I keep reminding myself that 24 isn't that old, that plenty of people go back to school at 24, that I must have been a giddy 19 year old once too [Wasn't I?]. I keep thinking that making friends wouldn't be so hard if I felt like there was some common ground, some common goal, some common bridge to cross together.

But there isn't. I'm not complaining, hear me out, I do love it here. I can't tell you how exciting it is to have my professors begin class with prayer, or to know that the people I brush up against in the hall are the same people who will congregate with me in Chapel three times a week, or to not have to worry that our literature homework will so pornographic I feel like crying, how wonderful it is to have a roommate and suitemates who love the Lord. It's amazing. God's provision on me, financially, physically, emotionally, it's all amazing.

But I still feel out of place. Like my life is Legally Blonde Gets Religion. Like I could use a really stimulating conversation about the Lord. Like I'm thirsty for homemade sweet tea with a slice of lemon.

I used to tell people that I could get lost in a paper bag, but that's not true. I really do have a good sense of direction. I can typically sniff my way out of being lost with little trouble. Today was the exception.

After an hour and a half of wandering the highways, biways, and get out of the ways I finally found the place I was originally looking for in south Chattanooga north of Chattanooga. And for any of you wondering if Chattanooga is as small town as you may have been led to believe, allow me to tell you that a small town it is not.

Everyone here would have me believe that I could handle any amount of traffic, jams, cities, ect. because they all believe that New York is one big city, even if I've clarified that it is not and therefore I am not as able as they may think.

So I've been thinking about all those stereotypes we've plastered on our civil comrades and I'm thinking it's about time we all just got along. There are cows in New York and sidewalks in Tennessee. Got that?

The end of a full day of classes - I've now gone to all of my classes, picked my favorites, dropped one and added another, read four pages of Beowulf in middle English [A daunting, but nonetheless necessary, task for every English major I'm told.], sat through three hours of what was supposed to be a graphic design class but turned out to be three hours of introductions to my classmates, gone to chapel, and now sit frozen in my dorm room. Tennessee doesn't appreciate warm weather like those from back yonder home where warm weather is a thing to be cherished. Here they believe that air conditioners are second only to the Bible when accumulating a list of the most important things in the world. I have yet to share their affection and my body is fairly consistantly covered in goosebumps.

But you don't want to hear about all of that! The real news is that this morning in Chapel a frantic girl from the modern languages department came rushing over to me and after explaining how she knew who I was [which I still have yet to fully comprehend], asked if I was interested in being a TA for an English class this semester? I do not need to be convinced of such endeavors being an asset to pretty resumes and I quickly accepted. It means being in class at seven-forty-five in the morning, but well worth the meager sacrifice. And did I mention that it pays? And did I mention that it's a writing class? I won't mention that it's filled with 21 soccer players who will probably have lost sleep on their mind more than the importance of proper punctuation usage, but you know. . .

This weblog is turning into one of those horrid horrid update blogs that I detest with a yucky taste in my mouth; which is fine, with everything else going so well it helps to have a yucky taste in my mouth to remind me to count my blessings.

Someday though, you'll see. Someday.

So I'm taking a graphic design class -- using a mac. Can I take this moment to say that this website looks horrible if viewed in anything other than Firefox? That was my plug for all you IE or Netscape or Safari or any other archaic internet operating system. I would also like to say, in my defense, that my name in the upper right hand corner is really much prettier on my computer than it is on any of yours. Much prettier. Someday I'll know everything there is to know about stuff like this and I'll still be on the bottom rung since I can't possibly learn as quickly as new stuff comes out.

Ending a sentence with a preposition also throws me through a loop because in a sentence like the one above, how else could I end it? I suppose I could add the addendum after out, in the field. Or, in technology. It's possible, even recommended, but I won't.

One of my professors said today that one of the best things for an undergraduate English major to get into is small publishing. Kudos for me. I secretly smiled and said poo-poo to all those who said it was stupid for me to get an English degree with a minor in graphic design.

For those who've asked, and for those who haven't:

Lore Ferguson #033
Lee University
PO BOX 3450
Cleveland, TN 37320

You love me, you know you do.
At least I know you do.

Their reddish-brown feet moved almost in unison: step-step, back-back, step-step and so on. The little one watched her sister’s feet and hands with no amount of veneration, but as a student looks at the master from whom he is learning, with full concentration. Their black eyes danced as swiftly as their skirts swung and my attention was captured. We had come to bless this migrant village with a good old American dousing and yet we found ourselves seated in the plastic chairs, cradling chia in our hands and utterly enraptured by the two swaying urchins.

They have fled from high in the Himalayan Mountains where the food availability is meager and where the gospel has never reached. They are of the Gurkah tribe, the fiercest fighters in the world, hired in armies internationally for their courage and combat ability. They now inhabit a small makeshift village in the lowlands, still monstrous at 13,000 feet above sea level. These migrants live in red clay bubbles, the floor they sweep is red clay, the walls they plaster with illustrations of their Hindu gods are red clay, and the ceiling the stare at when they go to bed is red clay. Their feet are less flesh colored and more clay colored.

Those red feet held our attention raptly that hot afternoon. Hardly more than toddlers, these girls have already learned one of the arts of their culture: when amusements are few, use whatever resources available; their resource is their natural ability to move to the beat of a Nepali drum.

Fully stocked with beat-boxing sound effects from the mouth and a plethora of silly skits with humor that was consistently lost in translation, we Americans had been prepared to entertain and then snap the gospel on the poor unreached souls: catch them and reel them in. What we hadn’t expected was to be the fish food ourselves.

Feeling like a fog; so much so that I just spelled fog gof. You get my drift?

Jet lagged and tired. Have chosen my classes. Wireless is still not up in my dorm (where I have all my good writing about Nepal saved on my laptop). Love my roommate. Love my New York friends more. Have a few testimonies. Lend an ear?

Today I went to the Financial Aid office to put a down payment down on this semester. I left a few minutes later having written over $2500 dollars to Lee University and followed a confused receptionist to another office. She was insisting that there were no other scholarships applied to my account and that I must be mistaken about the remainder of my school bill being taken care of by those scholarships. I secretly insisted that she was the mistaken one and meekly followed her to the scholarship office where she was not only informed that I did indeed have the sufficient scholarships, but I was also owed a credit. A credit? I asked incredulously, thinking of the bank account at home that was going to be completely depleted after the purchase of things like textbooks and toothpaste. Yes, a credit. Exactly enough to pay for said purchases.

So my friends, it appears that God not only meets our needs, He exceeds them.

Number two: And may I boast on my dear friends for a moment? Today in my inbox I received an email with this in the subject line:

Expedia travel confirmation - Syracuse, NY - Oct 20, 2005

fortunately I had been given a ten minute warning by the giver of such good gifts, else I would have had my crying bout in the middle of a computer lab instead of the private cafe while on the phone with her. Yes. Not only am I going home in October for a beloved friend's wedding, but I now am able to pay for the pretty green dress I'll proudly wear as I stand beside her.

And can I mention the pluses? My return ticket is booked for Sunday afternoon, so I can go to church!

Will the blessings never cease?
____________

I know you are all horribly disappointed by the lack of real literary substance that this weblob has taken on in the recent future; believe me when I say I'm sorry. I'm sure the real Lore will stand up soon. If you can see her through all this fog.

I know. I know. Something's wrong with my code.

Working on it. Among other things.

Shower taken.
Bed slept in.
US soil stepped on.
New York briefly stepped on.
Dad called.
Mom called.
Big brother called.
Little brother called.
Four left to call.
Car runs.
Pastor called.
People happy.

So am I.

Tonight. A new home.
My heart. Always home.

This will likely be my last post in Nepal -- we begin the trek home Wednesday morning [Tuesday night for most of you]. We are sitting in the tourist section of Katmandu doing tourist things like shopping for stuff and using cheap dial-up internet connections and hoping to catch an occasional English phrase. I was shopping but cut my time on the streets short to another burst of stomach fumes [What we thought was just a violent reactions to unclean village food is looking like a stomach bug as each of us consecutively catch it.].

This morning we visited a Bible college to share what was on our hearts and some worship. It was great; their faces were so attentive and hearts so humble. I loved it.

It has been such a blessing to be on this team. There was a rough day last week, but overall team spirits have been high [even in the midst of this yucky stomach stuff], camaraderie has been there, and I've been kept nicely in constant laughter due to the two comedians on our team. We've all been called on to do various sorts of ministry, from testimonies to full blown four-points, singing melody and harmony, holding wet naked babies and blessing old broken women. We've packed and unpacked our stuff six times since coming here and slept in seven different beds -- and still spirits are up.

Jeremy, our team leader, is a phenomenal leader. His example of servant and leadership is such a blessing to be kept accountable to.
Nance, team mom, is well, you know. Nancy. Mom enough to keep us getting along; friend enough to love in the meantime.
Jack, team do-all, is the nicest. His reminders and logic keep us from getting in over our heads in any of our ventures.
Peter, famous American, is comic relief and Holy Spirit refiller. His love for the Lord is contagious and, unfortunately, so is his stomach bug.
Ben, little brother, who I'm so blessed to be able to spend a last few weeks with before I leave for Tennessee. It's so cool to watch him grow in the Lord.
Kayla, team servant, always ready with a helping hand and quick smile.
And me. Just me.

I have so much more to write, and part of me thinks I will, but probably not. That's unfortunate, since I won't see most of you until Christmas. Perhaps I'll find a window of time where I can reflect and write a few of the amazing experiences we've had on this trip.

Until then, all I have is this:

I spent the first half of this summer with some amazing camp directors. If any of you young people from CFC are looking for something to do next summer, can I recommend Camp Mandaville? The Emmett's are some of the best people I've ever had the privilege of serving under and I'm of the opinion that there's no better place to quiet your heart than summer camp. Do it.

This Nepal trip has been amazing; I don't how I can more effectively communicate that to you. If this trip is offered through CFC again next summer COME. Bhim Gurung, though young in age and spirit, has an apostolic gifting which is so contagious and encouraging. His love for his people and his continual excitement for every venture we attempt helps keep us going. His family and home are so hospitable and humble. Come.

Pardon me boys, I'll see you later from the Chattanooga Choo-choo.

"I spent a month there one night": One of my favorite quotes from a childhood favorite movie and the only way to describe today. We are back in Kathmandu, Nepal's largest city, and we have left a trail of sick stomachs and uh, other things, behind us. The mountains here are beautiful, but the seven hours of hairpin turns at insane speeds and narrow [like four inches] brushes with death leaves this American team longing for stillness.

This morning was amazing: We helped Bhim minister at one of his daughter churches, a nine by twenty room in which we stuffed, at last count, 84 people. The singing echoed off the cement walls and went on for what felt like forever in the intense heat. Several Buddhist women came by to offer us a traditional Nepali dance and one of them heard the gospel and responded. Amazing.

But last night took the cake for us all. After traveling for several hours and being sufficiently tired, Bhim told us he was going to take us to a village where his people were living. None of us knew what to expect. We arrived and sat down, accepting the Chia which was generously given and sort of twiddled our thumbs for a half an hour.

We've grown as accustomed to stares and attracting attention wherever we go, but what began as a gathering of us plus four turned into a group of fifty by the time we left -- and this in a remote migrant village! We entertained them with breakdancing and candy and games and they entertained us with Nepali dances and songs. Toward the end Jeremy shared the gospel with them. It wasn't until after we left, and Bhim shared his excitement with us, that we realized that these people had never heard the gospel. Never. They are from a Tibetan tribe and speak a dialect all their own. The idea of sharing the gospel with a virtually unreached people group was exhilarating and unforgettable.

This trip has been packed full of everything imaginable; rest time is a thing of fantasy, there is too much to do. I love it.

August 7th 2005

It is dark here, so dark and yet the rain makes for a calming night lullaby. The whole land smells of incense and rain, especially now, at night, when the sounds are stilled and the minds can think about such things as smells and sounds. This land is hot and humid and has an unquenchable thirst unsatisfied by the monsoon waters which fall off the gutters. I lick my lips and taste curry and sweet banana.

A full twenty four hours has past since stepping off the plane and, literally, into the rice paddies. Already have hear the melancholy call of a Tibetan flute calling someone back to the Lord, conversed over Mirinda in a fourteen year old Woman-Child's hovel, worshipped in an authentic Nepali service, and taught the blanket game to abandoned orphans. We have tasted Nepali food, played cricket, baseball, and uno with the locals. We are their "first Americans." For others we are a taste of home.

An offering was taken by the church to bless us today. It totaled about 75 rupis: one dollar. The envelope was given humbly by the church treasurer to the leader of our group. His hands were raised in the familiar "praying hands" greeting and traditional Christian Nepali greeting, Jai Ma-see accompanied the gift.

I'm here on a whim and a prayer and the grace of a sovereign God, but I'm here for so much more. Fear buckled in my stomach last night as I partook of my first Nepali food, and I thought of the last time I ate foreign cuisine. I thought of the last time my feet stood on foreign soil; I was waving goodbye to a land and a culture I had wanted desperately to embrace as my own. I thought of the last time I served the Lord through missions, when I was really serving myself. Here is a gift to the Lord, yes, but here is a gift to me.

In twenty-four hours I have come to love a people in a way I have never let myself love another people. A lesson in humility this trip is wont to be, but a lesson in the never failing goodness and grace of our God is what He's bestowed upon me. I collected all that I had and its total was no more than 75 rupis, but what He has up his sleeve in return is a chance to try again. An opportunity to take baby steps back into the joy of serving.

August 9th 2005

I'm sitting here in a seven dollar a night hotel room. I just took my first shower in a week -- mere body washings have had to suffice. I feel clean; hot, but clean. The sun, whose effects make these people hot and weathered, has dipped behind a "hill" the size of a familiar Adirondack high peak. These mountains are unbelievable, rising up on all sides at all times. It seems that no matter how high we climb, there are still regions taunting us from their lofty heights. I am small. We are all small.

From my balcony I can see a grass hut on the hill across from me. Its silhouette against the greying sky a reminder of the poverty in this country. Someone is swimming in the lake in front of me. This view is less of the city behind me and more of the culture in front of me. I love this place. My love for it is fragile, new and yet untried. It has weathered nothing harder than infrequent sponge baths and a daily upset stomach, but my love for it has been kindling for the past four years.

I first caught a glimpse of Jade Snow Dragon in western China -- my first look at the Himalayan mountain range and it was branded permanently upon my heart. I didn't know then that my next view of that mountain range would be from a different direction, from a different country, this time in Nepal. I did know then that a desire to minister to the Tibetan people kindled as a mere flame which needed care and a bit more refining before it could be more fully realized. This time the doubt is gone and the certainty is there.

This will not be my last visit to this part of the world. The inhabitant of that grass hut knows no other God than Budda and I know no other way than to be willing to go myself.

Today I tasted the clouds. We rose at 4am and drove the heights to look at the sun rise by this mountain. Few sights have taken my breath away. Needless to say, between the 13,000 feet above sea level and the amazing sight in front of me, oxygen would have been a nice addition.

Have you ever tasted the clouds?

I have journal entries upon journal entries to enter -- but crowded internet cafes are not the place to write down the inner workings of this amazing experience. Everyone loves the places they visit on short term mission trips, but I never have. It's probably because I'm naturally objective about everything; piecing together moments and making a memory to be recalled as necessary. For whatever the reason, my short term mission trips are always experiences to add to my repertoire, and hardly permanent calls to the foreign mission field. I've loved them, don't get me wrong, but I love doing almost everything and nothing more than anything else. But this trip is different.

Nepal is amazing. These people are amazing. These crowed streets and smudged faces are breathtaking [literally. I had to catch my breath a few hundred times today on our seven hour trip through the Himalayan foothills to Pokhara.]. If asked if I want to come back my answer is an undoubted yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

More later.

I meant to write last night, but it wasn't until after I watched the tailights of my little car heading down the road that I remembered that the next time I'll see my laptop, or any of my piddly possessions, it will be at John F. Kennedy Airport. My trunk is full, my backseat houses some blankets and pillows, I'll tug my only suitcase around Nepal for the next few weeks. That's it.

Last night I hugged people one by one as they prepared to leave. I read a few cards whose messages made me cry. I stood in the shadow of my two closest friends (now miraculously made one through the covenant of marriage) and we prayed under the shadow of the most high. I felt a few tears rise up in the corners of my eyes a few times; not because I'm leaving -- no, but because for the first time in my life I'm excited about the Lord. Not my life, or the direction it's taking, not my talents, not my identity, not my past, not my future -- but Him alone.

It's a good place to be.